


Guess We'll Make for Shore

by elissastillstands



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Landry Lives, Various TOS cameos if you're looking for that sort of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elissastillstands/pseuds/elissastillstands
Summary: She knows before she opens her eyes that she's come to in sickbay. There's the beeping. There's the incessant mechanical whining. And there isn't anywhere else in the quadrants that has that same unmistakable stench of antiseptic covering up all the bloody mistakes the Federation'll never admit to making.(Landry lives. Anger, guilt, and two lives falling into tandem.)





	1. Don’t Let It Drown You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tincanspaceship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanspaceship/gifts).



She knows before she opens her eyes that she's come to in sickbay. There's the beeping. There's the incessant mechanical whining. And there isn't anywhere else in the quadrants that has that same unmistakable stench of antiseptic covering up all the bloody mistakes the Federation'll never admit to making.

She's alive, then. Stars know, Landry sure as shit didn't expect that.

There's a faint rustling from beside her bedside. "How long was I out, Doc?" she croaks. She doesn't open up her eyes yet. The moment she opens her eyes, she's Chief of Security again, third in the Discovery's chain of command, responsible for all of the people on the ship, nothing short of invincible. It's damn hard to be invincible when you feel like your ribs have been ripped out with the wrong end of a bat'leth. Culber's a decent man, though. He won't tell.

"I am not Doctor Culber."

Landry's eyes snap open.

The woman by her bed looks worn down to the quick, the skin beneath her eyes dark as bruises. She's sitting hunched down in the rickety plastic chair like she's trying to take up less space, or maybe trying to disappear.

"The hell are you doing here, Burnham?" Landry asks.

\-----

 _[Stardate: sometime before. Location: Starfleet Academy, Sol III.]_

When Ellen Landry was 17, her parents spent every last credit of their life's savings on the transport from the mining colony on Ser'hld XI to Sol III, so she could take the entrance exams to Starfleet. It took three weeks at full warp, and she had spent every waking moment of those weeks pressed to one of the windows, drinking in the light trails. She'd half-thought that they were a story, like space whales or resurrection temples, made up by the dilithium shippers who came to the colony, all puffed up with their big shiny ships, who preened like mating _ptlak_ lizards over the dirt-streaked miners in front of them.

She missed the cutoff by one point and spent the next three weeks sleeping in the back room of the restaurant that had accepted her as waitstaff. By day, she served shitty, overpriced alcohol to the fresh-faced cadets who had gotten into Starfleet in her place; by night, she watched bootlegs of shitty holodramas and refused to cry. There wasn't anyone else in the room to pity her, and she certainly wasn't going to pity herself.

She didn't know how she'd get back home. She didn't know if she wanted to.

But wait lists existed for a reason: some people, despite their perfect test scores, are just fucking cowards. And Landry might be a lot of things, but she wasn't a fucking coward.

\-----

Burnham the mutineer—no, _Specialist_ Burnham, damn Lorca, the admiralty’s spoiled child, they got him whatever toys he wanted just so he'd shut the hell up—is a security risk. She's a bad idea wrapped in a guilt complex that shouldn't exist outside of classic literature wrapped in moody stoicism, with a hint of intellectual high-mindedness that somehow prison still hadn't ground out of her, and she’s too famous and too good at what she does to be anything but dangerous. Landry can see where Lorca is going, of course; the woman’s smart as fuck and has nothing to lose, but she's still a risk. A fucking stupid idea.

Even worse that guilt complex? Where she thinks that she’s responsible for every single tragedy across the galaxy since the Binary Stars? In Burnham’s self-reproach wracked head, Landry’s now one of them.

When Landry gets back to work after the little incident with the tardigrade, Burnham doesn’t meet her eyes. She doesn’t snipe and argue with Landry the way she did before either, only nods and quietly assents whenever Landry tells her to do anything. She’s treating Landry like she’s fragile somehow. 

It’s intolerable.

“If you don’t cut that shit out, Burnham, I’m going to report you as a security risk,” Landry snaps, after a day of Burnham trying to keep her from standing too close to the tardigrade’s forcefield enclosure.

Burnham blinks at her in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Commander,” she says flatly.

Gods in warpspace, give her strength. Landry tosses her tricorder aside and stalks towards the other woman. “If you keep acting like I’m a piece of Bajoran stained glass, I’m going to report you as a security risk and then throw you into the brig, and I’m going to keep you there until I dump you on the next M-class on our route. Is that clear?”

Landry’s practically breathing Burnham’s air, and Burnham’s eyes are still focused on a point just over her shoulder. It would be impressive, if it wasn’t messing with Landry’s sense of control. “Commander, the ship’s security was jeopardized. You were endangered when you acted upon my faulty assumptions about the organism’s nature. I cannot—”

“You. Brig. Eviction. Is that fucking _clear_ , Specialist?” Landry leans fully against the forcefield and bares her teeth in a smile as Burnham flinches. 

Burnham meets her eyes for the first time in seven days. She pointedly steps away from the containment field. “Yes, Commander.”

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it, Specialist?” Landry snags her tricorder from the table and starts fiddling with the dials.

Burnham is silent. “Landry—”

“If you’re about to apologize to me for something that wasn’t your fault, I will report you.”

The silence behind her has a nearly quizzical bent to it. Landry can feel it. She says without turning around, “Hasn’t anyone told you that some things just aren’t your fault, Burnham? At some point, your self-flagellation is going to pass into hubris, and I don’t get that kind of vibe from you.”

There's a long, uncomfortable silence from behind her. Landry likes it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Commander.”

Landry grins at the stiff, indignant tone. 

_There we go._

\-----

When they dock at Starbase 12 to restock, a crate is transported aboard the Discovery, marked _high risk_ and _dangerous_. It's addressed to former Commander Michael Burnham. Material marked that sensitive has to be checked by the Chief of Security before takeoff.

Landry opens the crate and stares at what's inside. There’s what seems like hundreds of old-fashioned letters—damn backwards Federation bureaucracy, demanding that all communiques to high-profile prisoners had to be in physical form to reduce security risks—from across the quadrants. There are books, real paper books, and stasis-locked care packages of pies and cookies and homemade jam and foods Landry half-recognizes and foods she can't even begin to place. Landry has to read every single letter, scan every single pastry for potential hazardous materials. She runs background checks on all the writers. 

Burnham's friends from the Shenzhou want to know how she's holding up and assure her that they don't believe a word of what the media is saying. A researcher at the VSA tells her about all their new projects. A science officer writing from the Enterprise sent letters to Burnham every week when she was in prison, spending page after page tearing up the methods of studies in xenoanthropology. Landry may not be an expert in interspecies communication, but she'd say that the kid would be frantic, if he weren't Vulcan. 

A Federation ambassador—Burnham's adoptive father, a trusted member of Federation leadership—assures Burnham that he would get a hearing with the UFP president himself for her. The poor bastard never lost his optimism, even up through the final weeks of her trial. Amanda Grayson—professor, linguist, Burnham's adoptive mother—tells Burnham that she's loved no less than 44 times, once at the beginning and once at the end of each letter she sent. 

The younger sister to the late captain of the Shenzhou tells Burnham that she's welcome back in Langkawi at any time, that she's family. Nicole Wright—astrophysicist, sister-in-law of Burnham's late father—encloses in her letter a holo of two little girls making raspberry pie for their cousin.

Landry feels like a voyeur. She feels jealous. She feels like shit.

Lorca comes up when she's nearing the end of the process. "Anything interesting?" he asks, peering over her shoulder. His face is so close to hers that she can practically feel the tacky heat of his breath. 

She sets the letter face-down so Lorca can't read it. "Ha, no. I'll never understand why the Federation bigwigs want to kill so many trees, anyways." Landry opens the next envelope, careful to keep the text from Lorca's eyes. "She apparently has a sweet tooth, though. There're enough pies in there to distribute to the mess hall as dessert for the next week."

"Are they dangerous? Is there anything hidden inside of them?"

Where does Lorca think he is, anyways? A spy-themed holoflick? "Not unless you count calcium-based tooth cavities. Or rampant indigestion and drunkeness in copper-blooded crew members. This shit is pure sugar."

Lorca snorts. "Redistribution wouldn’t be a bad idea, then. Technically, this is all Starfleet property, anyways."

He reaches over to one of the pies she had removed from the stasis container. She swats his hand away with her tricorder before he touches it. "I wouldn't eat that if I were you. The stasis box was cheap, and that pie is nearly six months old."

"Damn, I had a hankering for pie," Lorca says, wiping his hand on the edge of his tunic. He turns away, calling over his shoulder, "Carry on, Commander."

After Landry's sure that he's left from the room, she glances over at the pie. The stasis on it had held so well that the fruit filling is still oven-warm to the touch. If she concentrates, she can still smell warm raspberries and melted sugar. Landry surreptitiously licks one of her gloved fingertips. The buttery crust is perfect.

Landry peels off her dirty gloves and dons a new pair.

\-----

_[Stardate: a little later. Location: Still Starfleet Academy, Sol III.]_

“What the hell is this?” Landry’s advisor demands, slamming down a file on her desk.

“Did you commission paper copies just so you could throw them at me?” Landry asks, sprawling out in her chair. 

“It’s an arrest record, Cadet.”

“Didn’t want to break a PADD by accident or something?”

“You were in jail for three weeks.”

“It was on winter break; I didn’t even miss any classes.”

Her advisor opens the file and starts flipping through pages, ticking off all of Landry's misdemeanors. “Drunkenness and rowdy behavior. Damage of private property. Assault. Do you know how bad this is? You got into a barfight with six other cadets, one of whom is Admiral Archer’s protege and the top senior student in command. You broke his nose and knocked out two of his teeth.”

Landry shrugs, picking at her nails. “Not my fault he can't block punches.”

“You threw another cadet into the bar.”

“Well then he needs to look out for where he's going a little better—”

“You hit another cadet with a chair.”

“—look, are you just going to list off everything I did to the 'Fleet brats? We're going to be here all day, and I'm already on probation, apparently—”

“Cadet, you're lucky the board only decided on probation. You could have been expelled. You _should_ have been expelled.”

“Then why wasn't I?” Landry snaps. She swings her feet off of Dr. Lam’s desk and slams them on the ground. “Why don't you expel me already, then? If I'm so violent and angry and unstable, if I'm such a fucking disgrace to the uniform, if I sent your precious 'Fleet brats crying back to their admiral daddies, why don't you just fucking kick me out and send me back to where I belong—”

She breaks off when she sees the expression on Dr. Lam's face, which had morphed from the woman's sorry attempt to be a hard-ass to something way too fucking close to pity.

“Don't you dare, Veronica,” Landry snarls. “I started that fight. It wasn't self defense. It wasn't retaliation. No one made me do it. I saw the shiniest 'Fleet brat in the room, and I poured a drink in his lap. Don't you dare take that away from me.”

“Cadet Landry—”

“I'll take the probation and the community service. I'll do the fuck whatever you want. Is that it? Can I go?”

“—you know, a lot of cadets come here and experience feelings of isolation and resentment—”

Landry cuts across her bullshit and starts imitating her in a high pitched voice, “ _—and if you want to talk about anything, my door is always open, and there are support groups for other cadets from underprivileged backgrounds to come together and talk about your feelings, and by the end of it you'll be so happy that you sold your souls to Starfleet._ Yeah, you've given me the spiel before, no-fucking-thanks.”

She gets up to leave, and she's just about to stomp out the door when Dr. Lam says, “I vouched for you with Archer and the board.”

Landry stills.

“They were going to kick you out this time, Landry. They said you were too volatile to be a good charity case.” The words make Landry want to slam the door to the office so hard that the glass panes shatter, but something in Dr. Lam's voice makes her keep listening. “They asked me for my professional opinion, and I told them the truth. I told them that you were one of the brightest cadets I have ever worked with. That you have a remarkable drive. That we have given second chances to cadets with more severe infractions and far less promise, based on their heritage and last names and political leverage. And that your anger towards us is justified.”

Landry's fingers tighten on the doorknob. “Bullshit. Bullshit, Veronica, you didn't say that to Archer—no one says shit like that—”

“He asked me for the truth, and I told him.” Dr. Lam's voice is soft. “You have every right to be angry, and anger can be good. From what I know about you, anger has kept you alive.”

Landry struggles to find something to say.

“You just need to find a way to make something of it, Landry. Don't let it drown you.”


	2. I Hate Philosophers

_[Computer, start recording transmission for Dhyan and Camille Landry, location: Solkar IV settlement, Ser'hld XI._

_Hey Mom, hey Dad. So classes are going well. I have a lot of friends. All my teachers love me, and everything is just—_

_Fuck. Fucking pathetic. Shut up, Landry, shut the fuck up—_

_Computer, terminate and erase recording.]_

\-----

Between Lorca going missing and the sheer amount of weird shit going on around the ship, it takes Landry a couple days to get the packages back to Burnham. She manages to corner the specialist in the hall outside of her quarters. “So, Specialist, I finally went through all the shit you were sent—”

“Where did you get these?” Burnham’s voice is flatter than it was when she first came onboard the ship. 

Landry sets the box down on the floor between them with a _thunk_ and continues on with what she’s saying as if Burnham had never interrupted, “—while you were in prison. Nothing was a security risk, so you can have it all. Enjoy the cavities.”

“Who sent these?”

“Your friends from school. Your family. Some people from earth. Didn’t know you were so popular, Burnham.”

Burnham turns away, her hands firmly clasped behind her back. “I am not taking them.”

“Too bad. Someone needs to, and I’m certainly not keeping this shit. There’re beef curry puffs in there, anyways, and I don’t eat beef.”

“Give them to the crew. I don’t want them.”

“Fine.” Landry picks the box off of the floor and takes out the folder on top. “They probably don’t want these, though. Your life is plastered all over the goddamn news; we don’t need to know any more of it.”

Burnham stares at the letters. Landry waves it in her direction. “Take them. Chuck them if you hate them so much.”

She slowly reaches out to take them, and Landry turns away. She hands over the box of food to the people in charge of the mess and goes on with her day. When she gets dinner in the dining hall that night, she sees Burnham walk into the room and freeze at the sight of the three pies arranged on the counter. 

She’s still for so long that she becomes a traffic hazard.

“Specialist!” Landry calls across the room. “Over here!”

Burnham jumps a little and then turns towards her.

“Get your lunch and sit down.” Landry sticks a bite of chicken into her mouth. “I want to go over some of the numbers from this morning with you. Gotta do everything we can to get the captain back, right?” 

\-----

“All teams will report to my office for performance reviews starting at 0800 tomorrow morning. I’ll send the times to your leads,” Landry calls across the gym, packing up her gear. She turns to her three main lieutenants, lowering her voice. “Vistor, Padilla, Klirynz, good job today.”

“One of the new ensigns has a cocky streak,” Vistor says. Her bleached hair stands up in little tufts after she runs a towel through it. “Needs to have that sorted out sooner or later.”

“I heard Meaney’s been tinkering with one of the alcohol synthesizers. Rumor has it, the whiskey actually tastes like whiskey,” Padilla says as they make their way to the dining hall.

Klirynz harrumphs. “Imagine that.”

“Yeah, gonna be a long time before they nail the Denobulan intoxicant formula, though.” Padilla pats Klirynz on the shoulder in sympathy.

“I’m out of chips for the week,” Vistor announces. “A friend hit a rough spot, and she wanted chocolatinis.”

Landry rolls her eyes and tosses two of her drink chips at Vistor. “Is this Rana again? Should’ve replicated a bottle of cheap vodka and left her at it.”

“Nothing wrong with a frou-frou drink here and there, Chief.”

“Oh, so you’re the one who drank all the chocolatinis.”

They sit down at a table in the corner after they get their lunches. Landry chugs her protein shake. From the side of her eye, she can watch Burnham walk into the dining hall. There’s still a lull from the people around her, whenever she shows up anywhere. That engineering cadet is still the only person who’ll sit with her. It’s like school all over again.

“You know if she ever needs a sparring partner?” Vistor asks in a lowered voice, turning in her seat to look at Burnham.

“ _Sparring partner_?” Padilla echoes.

Klirynz chuckles, digging into their Edosian pudding and grinning at Vistor over the table. “Hey, Bri, you got a little something—right here—” they stage-whisper, pretending to wipe away spit from the corner of their mouth.

Vistor scoffs. “What? Okay—you all saw her when she first came here; her hand-to-hand is crazy. I just want to spar with her and see if—”

“Right. Sparring. That’s what they call it these days.” Landry starts in on her fruit.

“You work with her, right? What’s she like?”

“Smart as a whip,” Landry says through her mouthful of mango. “Chip on her shoulder. Thinks she’s right all the time. Stubborn. A little awkward. Bit of an adrenaline junkie.”

“She seems like a good egg, then.” Vistor is still looking at Burnham over her shoulder. “I’ve always thought the trial did her dirty.”

“She’s a convicted mutineer, Lieutenant.”

“Doesn’t mean that they were right; just mean they won the trial. I wonder if—”

“Down, Vistor,” Landry says, rolling her eyes. “Your past as a petty criminal and bar crawler isn’t going to impress her; she’s practically an adopted princess on Vulcan, and she has better taste than that.”

The lieutenant swings around to look at her. “What—oh. _Oh_. I see,” she says, a wide grin stretching her lips. “Of course, Chief. Loud and clear.”

“I didn’t even say anything—”

“And yet we still heard you loud and clear,” Padilla says, smiling.

Landry glares at him. “Insubordination. All of you.”

Almost against her will, she keeps glancing back at Burnham as she finishes her lunch. The specialist must be talking about the tardigrade, or something else as scientific and technical, because her eyes are practically lit up with a frenzy of enthusiasm, and she’s gesturing in Cadet Tilly’s direction with increasingly wide motions. Tilly looks like she’s in love, and Landry can’t blame her. It’s—compelling, in a certain way. It’s—it’s—

It’s cute. Fucking hell, it’s _cute_. 

\-----

_[Stardate: whenever. Location: Royal Palace, Erixana II.]_

Every Starfleet officer is required to make a living will before going into space. Landry’s only has one stipulation: she wants to be atomized when she dies. 

If she's lucky, she'll get hit by a phaser beam and be disintegrated anyways. It's not any sort of philosophical embrace of the transience of mortal bodies—she fucking hates philosophers, and poets besides. It's because she can't stomach the idea of leaving behind something for others to mourn. She's been to enough funerals to know that people like her are worth way more when they're pretty corpses than they were when they were alive and acting shitty. Landry's spent too much effort on making people see her as a person to be reduced to a saint when she dies.

She’s assigned as a security officer to the Farragut, a shiny science vessel full to the brim with fresh meat. Her CO is Garrovick, a chest-puffing weasel of a man who reminds her of the dilithium shippers who preened in the mining dust back home. She hates him on sight. She hates the ship. She hates the other bright-eyed officers, all of them eager to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations and gawk at them like people at a zoo.

It’s their first mission—their fucking _first_ mission—and they’re sent to the Erixana system as part of a contingent of ships meant to negotiate trade routes between the planets. Landry’s given a day off, to mingle with the people at the fair the Lyrrs dynasty prince and princess have put on in honor of the Federation. She may not believe in the ceremonies being worth a damn, but she’s ready to kill an ensign for a non-replicated meal.

The sky is gold and orange, warm and thick as honey as she wanders through the brightly colored tents of the fair. She sniffs at the air and smells something she half-recognizes. The scent leads her to a stall at the edge of the space with bubbling vats of mustard-yellow soup and bowls of purple-black grain glistening in the light.

“Is this food safe for humans?” she asks. Her translator turns it into the high chirrups and chiming sounds of the Ly’as language of the northern Erixanan continent. 

The owner of the stall cocks their head to one side, green antennae flicking back and forth. They click loudly, and Landry’s translator spits out a monotone _Yes_.

“Can I have one serving?”

 _Yes_.

She is given a metallic platter of grain and soup. “Thank you. Uh. How should I eat it? Just with my hands, or—”

The whole stall owner’s body twitches, and they start clicking furiously. _No. No, not with your—_ the translator whirs for a moment, repeating a few Ly’as clicks, _—but from the plate._ _No. That is dirty. It is our habit to eat like this._ They hold an empty platter up to their mouth and mime eating, their mandibles clattering faintly on the metal. 

Landry doesn’t have mandibles, but she’s not one to back down from a challenge. She tips the plate back and angles it so the food falls more or less directly into her open mouth. It’s a little bitter and a little salty and a little bit sticky-sweet, but there’s an underlying spicy-fruity warmth to it, like the cardamon and saffron and pepper in the biryani her father made when they could afford it.

“That’s delicious. Holy shit.” She pauses to swallow, and as her translator clicks away, she tries to take another bite. More of it ends up on her uniform top than on her tastebuds, but she doesn’t quite care. “Oh man, this is so good.”

The translator doesn’t pick up on the rapid clicking of the stall owner, but Landry gets the distinct sense that she’s being laughed at. “I don’t have your jaw, okay? I can’t eat efficiently like this.”

_It is satisfactory. I am satisfied you are enjoying it._

She only hesitates a moment before licking the plate clean and then setting it down on top of the stack of empty plates by the side of the stall. “Thank you for that,” she tells the owner earnestly. “It was absolutely amazing. I’ll come back for more after the signing ceremony—”

The owner hisses abruptly. _Stop_. Their eyes shift from side to side. _Come here, human person._

Well, that doesn’t sound threatening at all. Landry steps a little closer. “What are you—”

 _Be quiet. Listen._ The owner draws her into the stall. _There is going to be a-_ \- the translator whirs _—against the—_ the translator whirs again _—in the ceremony today. The Sky Voice will come and—together with the—they will—and take back what belongs to us. The—have been—for too long, and we have been waiting to—for too long, and—we—now—strike—_

The translator is failing completely, only translating one word in seven, and the Erixanan is speaking faster and faster, their eyes intent. Landry tries to piece it all together. Ceremony—the signing ceremony. Sky Voice? Strike? Take back what belongs to—

“Gods in warpspace,” Landry breathes. “You’re rebelling against the Lyrrs.”

The stall owner hisses loudly again. _Do not demean us like that. Do not say their names. We are not some rabble taking over; we are taking back what is ours from the—who have worked us to dust—_

Rebelling. The translator must not have rendered the word right. Landry tries again. “You are fighting a revolution. Against the—the tyrants. Sky Voice are your fighters.”

 _Just war. Warriors. Yes._ The Erixanan pauses. _Sky Voice intends to kill your human people also. They want to make a statement._

Landry freezes. “So this—this was an ambush.”

_Hidden attack. Yes._

Well, shit.

“Then why—” Landry swallows hard. “—why did you tell me about it? I am duty-bound to Starfleet and the Federation; I have to report this and get my people out of here—”

 _You were kind. You ate the soup our way._ The stall owner clicks quietly. _Stay here with me. My sibling is Sky Voice. You will be safe._

“No, I can’t.” Landry gropes at her waist for her comm. “I have to report this—” She pulls it out and pages for the ship. There is no response.

_Sky Voice have already set up a no-wavelength boundary. Your devices will not work. You will be safe here._

Shit. _Shit_. “I have to get the ‘Fleet crew out of here. That’s my job.”

_But you do not say you are part of the human people group. You are separate. Stay._

“I have to go, I have to get them out—”

_You will die._

“It is my duty. I have a duty to the crew, just as you and Sky Voice have a duty to your people. I just need to get them out of here. We won’t interfere with your revolution, I promise.”

The Erixanan stare at her for a long moment. _You are kind_ , they say at last.

 _Kind_ must be another word the translator can’t render correctly. Landry nods. “Thank you. Good luck.”

And then she sets off through the fair at a dead run.

She snags the arm of the first ‘Fleet member she comes across, a bright-eyed and bouncy science lieutenant. “You will listen to me, Lieutenant, or we’re all going to die. Do you understand me?” The kid’s eyes go wide, and he nods, blond hair quivering. “We’re in the middle of a revolution. The Lyrrs rulers are about to get taken down. We need to get out of the comm dead zone they’ve set up and beam out, ASAP.”

Gods help her, the lieutenant gasps, “We have to go help the prince and princess—”

“Bullshit. No, we don’t. They’ve been wringing their people dry. They deserve this.”

“But—how—”

“I had some really good rice and some fascinating conversation. Just because the Federation allies with them doesn’t mean they deserve jack shit. Our best course of action is extraction—get out, don’t get killed, let the revolution take its course, come back and renegotiate the treaties with the new government in a few solar cycles. Go get Garrovick. Tell him that there’s about to be a shitshow. We need to get the hell out of dodge.”

“But—if they’re wrong, shouldn’t we be—”

“You’re Federation, kid,” Landry spits. “It’s not about what’s right. It’s about what’s practical. We have to move, now.”

“But why—”

“ _Now_ , Lieutenant.” She takes off for the main tent, and the kid follows her.


	3. I Never Knew That Before

Lorca comes back, a battered-looking lieutenant named Ash Tyler in tow. Landry stands by as Culber heals the worst of the injuries on his face, wincing as the regenerator passes over a deep gash. No matter how regen tech has advanced, it’ll never stop stinging like a bitch.

“I think he can be debriefed now, Commander,” Culber tells her, pressing a painkiller hypo into Tyler’s neck. He gently pats the lieutenant on the shoulder. “Welcome back to the ‘Fleet, Lieutenant Tyler. Come back here after your debriefing; we can heal the concussion then, and I want you to spend at least tonight in sickbay, for observation.”

“I—thanks. Thank you, Doctor,” Tyler says, and he follows behind Landry as she walks to her office. 

They’re barely out the door from sickbay when Tyler turns to her. “Commander Landry, I—I don’t think my injuries are so bad that they’d have to—”

“Culber’s high in the medical ranks, Lieutenant. Whenever he gives an order, everyone has to follow it, even his husband.”

“It’s just that—I don’t need to—”

“He just wants to make sure you’re okay, Tyler. We all do.” They reach her office, and she gestures for him to take a chair. He chooses one in the corner, in a direct line of sight from the door. “It’s the smell, isn’t it?”

“You too?”

“I can’t fucking stand hospitals.”

“It’s—it’s just being in the bed too, you know? I feel like I’m—like it’s not safe in there.”

Landry sits down at her desk, pulling out a PADD to take notes. “How long were you in the prison?”

“227 days.”

“You counted?”

“Every single one.”

Landry nods, making a note on her PADD and sending a message to Culber, requesting a private recovery room for Tyler. “Okay, Lieutenant, I have to ask you some questions. This is all routine; we have to do this with every recovered officer. Please answer all questions honestly and to the best of your ability. We’re going to start with your name, identification, and most recent tour of duty, all that stuff. Sound good?”

After a heavy three hours of debriefing, she accompanies Tyler back to sickbay. “You’re going to be posted on light duty with security and ops for the time being,” Landry says, steering him through the hallways. “The psych department is going to get in touch and refer you to someone. Don’t be afraid to tell them to fuck over if they don’t feel right to you.”

“With—uh—milder language, I’m assuming,” Tyler says. He glances at her immediately after he says it. It looks like he’s waiting for her to tell him to go to time-out or something. 

Landry guffaws, punching in the entry code to the medical wing. “Careful, Lieutenant. I might think that you’re trying to be funny.”

227 days in a Klingon prison and he’s still trying. The man’s damn impressive.

\-----

Landry’s standing in the back of the room when Burnham releases the tardigrade. The animal vanishes in a flash of light, and when Burnham turns back to look at her, her eyes are bright and shiny, like they have some of that otherworldly lightning in them. Meeting her gaze makes Landry feel strange, shocky, like there’s a little of that electricity in her now. She coughs and turns away, walking into the corridor. Burnham definitely doesn’t want her to see her crying—

“Commander Landry,” the specialist calls after her.

Landry turns back. Burnham’s eyes are still wet, but she’s smiling at Landry, and Landry doesn’t quite understand why. “Are we still on for sparring this afternoon?”

“Yeah, sure.” Landry starts walking again. “1730, Burnham,” she calls over her shoulder. “Don’t be late.”

She rubs her hands together as she walks, still feeling that current beneath her skin.

\-----

_[Stardate: after Erixana. Location: back at Starfleet Academy, Sol III. Fuck it.]_

“—tampered with our mission objectives, ruined the treaty negotiations, obliterated our alliance with the Lyrrs rulers, and made sure that we will not be able to establish trade networks in the Erixanan system for at least another ten Standard years. She brought one of my best lieutenants in on her nonsense! In addition to all that, her behavior towards me and her fellow officers is consistently rude, disrespectful, and insubordinate. I don’t want her on my ship, Commodore. I believe that her violence towards me, her commanding officer, constitutes an act of mutiny which—”

“Captain Garrovick, Lieutenant Landry forcibly carried you out of a firefight between the Lyrrs rulers’ guards and the citizen rebellion. She arguably saved your life, and the life of all of the Farragut crew on the planet,” the commodore in charge of Landry’s court martial says calmly.

“She did all that against my orders, Commodore Paris. All while calling me a—a—”

“Lieutenant Landry, would you care to repeat what you used to address the captain?”

“A rat bastard with no fucking brains and no fucking morals,” Landry says in her cheeriest voice. She crosses her legs and balances her chair on its hind posts.

The tribunal is silent for a long, long time. 

“Right,” Commodore Paris says at last. “She did all that against your orders, all while calling you a rat bastard with no fucking brains and no fucking morals.”

“That—sounds an awful lot like mutiny, Commodore,” an admiral says.

The rest of the tribunal murmurs in agreement. Garrovick looks smugger than ever. Landry keeps her cheeriest smile pasted to her face.

“Lieutenant Landry, I believe that the tribunal has no choice except to remove you from your tour of duty on the Farragut,” the commodore says.

Garrovick lets out a hiss of triumph. Landry refuses to let her smile fall.

“The tribunal is now adjourned. Captain, Admirals, you are now free to leave the room.”

Landry keeps smiling as the people file out of the courtroom. She was right. She did the right thing. She will never let another living being see her cry. The room slowly empties, until it’s just her, the commodore, and a guy she doesn’t recognize.

“Lieutenant Landry,” the commodore says, “this is Captain Gabriel Lorca of the USS Discovery. We have an offer for you.”

\-----

Landry likes sparring with Burnham whenever they get the chance. They’re perfectly matched. Burnham fights fast and smart. Landry fights dirty.

“—so hopefully, he’ll adjust to the ship so—fucking _hell_ , Burnham,” Landry yelps as the specialist deals a particularly nasty blow to the back of her knee. “You’ll piss Culber off if we have to check out another regen.”

Burnham settles back into her ready stance. “He served on the Yaeger, you said?” she asks, completely unruffled as she blocks and weaves around the punches Landry throws in her direction. “I know one of the survivors from the ship; I can see if she can put him in touch with any of his crewmates—” she hisses through her teeth, her head snapping back as Landry manages to land a backhand.

Landry takes advantage of the distraction and sweeps Burnham’s legs out from under her. She straddles Burnham’s thighs to hold her legs immobile and wrestles her arms over her head, pinning her down by her wrists. Burnham tries to twist out of her hold, and she presses down a little harder. 

“You—you fight like a drunk child,” Burnham hisses, turning her head from side to side. Her face so close to Landry’s that she can feel the other woman’s breathing on her skin.

Landry grins. “I learned all my best moves from barfights—fucking shi _argh_ —”

Burnham locks their legs together and manages to flip them over, catching Landry’s arms and twisting one over her head, holding the other trapped between their chests. Her grip is firm, her palms warm. Landry’s trapped arm also really hurts. 

“Yield.” 

“No.”

Burnham has a small grin on her face, and from so close, her teeth are a bright edge of wet. It’s distracting, which is why Landry jolts a little when Burnham twists her trapped arm a little more. “Did you learn this in a barfight?” the specialist asks.

“What the loving fuck are you doing to my arm, Burnham, it feels like you’re breaking something—”

“It’s perfectly harmless,” Burnham says. She sounds a little breathless, which Landry counts as a minor victory. “Yield.”

“Absolutely not.” Landry breathes through her teeth as Burnham leans in, her little grin growing wider and her grip getting tighter. “This is a goddamn menace, Burnham; you’re a _menace_ —shit, shit, shit, I yield—”

Burnham immediately lets go of her arm and gets off of her chest. Landry lets her head fall back on the sparring mat with a _thunk_ , closing her eyes and taking deep breaths until her breathing evened out. Her arm feels strange, weightless, and the length of her body is cold. The woman’s a menace. A _menace_.

“Remember—the Yaeger survivors,” Landry says, flapping her hand in what she assumes is Burnham’s direction. “Send me your friend’s name, too; contacting them through the official security channels might make it easier for them to believe Tyler’s resurrection.”

There’s a gentle touch on her palm. Landry opens her eyes and blinks a couple times at the sight of Burnham holding her hand and half-smiling at her. “Burnham—what—”

Burnham raises an eyebrow. 

Right. She’s still on the ground. Landry lets Burnham help her to her feet. “Thank you, Specialist,” she says a little belatedly.

Burnham nods. "People didn’t help you up after your barfights, Landry?”

“Ha. No. They occasionally bought me a drink, though.”

“You were in barfights a lot, it seems." Landry can’t tell if Burnham’s words are a statement about her drinking habits or a question about her past. She considers it for a moment. She has parents who love her beyond anything she can comprehend. She got in fights with the miners who jeered at her and called her slow but pretty enough for it not to matter. She wanted to get out of that shitty colony more than she wanted to live, and when she did, she found out that she couldn't leave the anger behind, just because things were a little better. She's been angry for as long as she can remember, and she likes it that way. "I was a troubled kid. Starfleet wiped my records, though, so you won't be finding out about any of that.” She combed her fingers through her sweaty hair, trying to rearrange it into some semblance of order before turning back to Burnham. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Burnham says. 

Her eyes are still shiny, bright with the stuff of stars. Landry looks around for a moment, wondering if a space anomaly had suddenly opened up in the gym to pique Burnham’s curiosity, and she realizes with a start that Burnham’s looking at _her_.

\-----

_[Computer, start recording transmission for Dhyan and Camille Landry, location: Solkar IV settlement, Ser'hld XI._

_Mom, Dad, I hope everything is going well at the—_

_—never mind._

_So, uh, I recently was on planet in the Erixana system. I ate this grain dish that tasted almost exactly like your biryani, if biryani had a lot of sauce. Isn’t that crazy? Halfway across the quadrant, and people still like cardamom. A really nice cook gave it to me. But then—stuff happens, you know?_

_The universe is kind of amazing. I never knew that before._

_I’m, uh, I’m on a new ship now. It’s not because I did anything bad—well, something bad happened, but that wasn’t me, even though I was kind of in it—_

_—fucking hell, Landry, learn to talk. Computer, terminate and erase recording.]_

\-----

"Dinner?" Landry asks.

Burnham doesn't even look up from her screen. "There are a few more calculations I want to run regarding the sporedrive. Now that the tardigrade is no longer the navigational component of the system, I want to run a detailed analysis of the generational matrix to make sure that there aren’t any instabilities."

Landry can't bring herself to be offended. "Burnham, I'm asking you to dinner. An off-duty dinner. To investigate our recreational compatibility."

There's a split second of silence in the room as Burnham's fingers briefly pause over the console. The specialist raises an eyebrow and glances at Landry. There's screen glare tangled in her eyes, glinting off the quickly-sheathed edge of her smile-bared teeth, and whoever thinks this woman is cold and stoic is wrong, dead wrong. Stoics don't smile like that, with a knowing hunger.

"Recreational compatibility, Commander? Can you be any more euphemistic?"

Landry rolls her eyes. "I was trying to appease your delicate sensibilities, Specialist. I want you. You want me. Let's make it work."

"Rather presumptuous of you to assume that about me," Burnham murmurs, turning back to her console, but Landry knows that she's smirking. She can read her like a damn open book now. 

"Dinner, Burnham," Landry says again, crossing her arms and leaning against one of the tables. "Do you want a fucking paper invitation?"

"A modicum of politeness would suffice." Burnham had stopped all semblance of working. Her smirk is out in what counts for her as full-force, a corner of her lip twisted just so. It makes her unspeakably, intolerably pretty. 

"Burnham," Landry says, leaning towards her, "would you please do me the honor of sharing a meal with me?"

"Since you asked so nicely," Burnham says, primly.

\-----

"Have you done this before, Burnham?" Landry asks, running a hand down the other woman's bare back. She can feel Burnham's muscles bunch together, shoulder blades shifting as she reaches behind her to undo her bra.

"You think that because I was Vulcan-raised that I'm sexually inexperienced?" Burnham asks. She tosses her bra aside and then leans over, straddling Landry's lap and snaking her fingers beneath her shirt. She looks down at Landry, a single eyebrow still goddamn raised, like Landry’s some quaint, fascinating puzzle. It's infuriating. It's intolerable. Landry does her damn best to kiss the expression off of her face.

"Hey, there isn't anything wrong with that," Landry says when they part for air. They combine efforts to work off her shirt.

"Of course." They've gotten her shirt off, and Burnham's hands are cradling her face, her palms warm and smooth, and she intersperses her words with quick, sipping kisses as she says, "For me, first there was one of my classmates when I was seventeen. Then another student from the VSA. Then a lovely Andorian ambassador who wrote me very bad poetry, then one of the crewmembers of the Shenzhou, then—"

"Burnham, you're either going to have to describe these encounters in far greater detail to get me going, or you should stop talking about the other people you've fucked," Landry says dryly, but she's smiling, stroking over the swell of Burnham's breasts and the strong flex of her thighs bracketing Landry's torso. 

Burnham grins. "I was providing you with evidence."

"You should provide me with more evidence. The _practical_ kind."

"An eminently logical proposition," Burnham says. “Truly.”

Smartass. Landry surges up and presses Burnham into the sheets, drinking the laughing noises out of her mouth.


	4. Does It Mean Something to You?

Landry finds out a lot of things about Burnham in the weeks that follow.

Some of these things are predictable. Burnham, she learns, is the kind of person who folds her dirty clothes before putting them in the hamper—for efficient use of space, she says. She’s the kind of person who rigorously tries to get eight hours of sleep a night, and carefully keeps track of her protein and fiber intake, and has strong opinions about vegetarian meat alternatives. She’s the kind of person who annotates the books she reads for fun.

But some of the things are less expected. Burnham is also the kind of person who has folders and folders of holos on her personal PADD. Who has a sweet tooth so strong that she sometimes just eats apples, almond butter, and two slices of pie instead of dinner, despite her otherwise outlandishly healthy eating habits. Who dances in her seat and hums along whenever any songs by Old Earth singers like Destiny’s Child come on. 

She’s the kind of person who knows who Destiny’s Child is. Landry’s Nana barely knows that shit, and she was a music history major before she went to the colony. 

“Stars and gods, Burnham, is this what they taught you to eat on Vulcan?” Landry asks as she wanders over to the desk where the specialist is working, eyeing the plate of cream-filled chocolate sandwich cookies Burnham has by her elbow.

“Vulcan cuisine contains little to no sucrose,” Burnham says, jabbing at her screen. She picks up one of the cookies, twists it open, and eats all of the cream before crunching loudly on the chocolate wafers.

Landry picks up one of the sweets, propping up her chin on Burnham’s shoulder. “What are these, then?”

“These are the reconstruction of a popular Old Earth snack. It was the first replicator program I ever figured out how to write. I think I was—seven? Eight?” Burnham’s fingers hesitate for a moment over her PADD. “Back on Doctari Alpha.”

“Fucking hell. Seven years old and you were already doing historical food reconstructions?” Landry nibbles on the cookie. It toes the line between _tolerable_ and _saccharine_. “Not bad,” she decides to say. “For a seven year old.”

“They were very popular in the 21st century.”

“People had bad taste back then.”

“They are also entirely vegan and have a stable non-stasis shelf life of up to a year.”

Landry whistles. “No wonder they taste like apocalypse food.” She takes another cookie and heads back to the bedroom.

“No eating on the bed!” Burnham calls from the table.

“You realize these are my quarters, right?” Landry rolls her eyes but still pops the entire cookie into her mouth, chewing loudly. “There, happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Whoever said Vulcans don’t have humor needs to be tried for perjury.” Landry goes back into the bedroom and plops down on her bed, scrolling through specs and reviews for the latest blasters as she waits for Burnham to finish up and join her. 

A few nights later, she wakes up at 0315 because Burnham is twisting like she’s in pain, and screaming. Not loudly, but in the back of her throat, through her teeth, as if she’s afraid of someone hearing. 

Landry shakes her awake. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay,” she says as gently as she’s able when Burnham’s scrunched-up eyes slowly open.

The specialist looks around for a moment, half-dazed, and then stiffens, jerking away from Landry’s hand. 

"You want to talk about it?" Landry asks, turning the lights to 30 percent. Burnham levers herself out of bed and stalks over to the bathroom. "No," she says curtly, and locks the door behind her. Landry's more than half asleep when Burnham slides back into bed and calls for the computer to turn off the lights. She's stiff under the covers, and Landry curls around her as much as she’ll allow. "When you want to, feel free," she says muzzily.

She still has a lot to learn about those places Burnham never wants to talk about.

\-----

_[Stardate: a while after Erixana. Location: the weirdest fucking ship in the galaxy.]_

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes. These tests are imperative for—”

“Lieutenant, you can say that you need to test the quantum whatever of your magic mushroom teleportation spores all day until your face is blue, but until you make sure that your tests will not falsely trigger the contamination alarms in the air filtration systems, I cannot let you—”

“—my first order of duty is to research this spore technology, and that injunction was given to me by Starfleet command. That supersedes your authority as CSO—”

“No,” Landry says flatly. “No, it doesn’t.”

The pasty lieutenant puffs up like a _ptlak_ lizard on full mating display. “I,” he says, “am going to go talk to the captain about it.”

He leaves from Landry’s office in a huff. Landry slowly, gently _thunks_ her head on her desk a couple times. Mushrooms. Magical teleportation mushrooms. Fucking mushrooms. This ship is devoted to science experiments so redacted in their reports that she barely knows how to categorize her files, and mushrooms. Gods in warpspace, what did she ever do to deserve this?

The captain sends her an order later that same day, telling her to let Stamets disable the alarms in the air filtration systems around his lab. After checking to make sure that the science minions didn’t end up tampering with critical life support on their quest for teleportation, Landry spends about five hours laying into a punching bag at a gym. Fuck. Fucking hell, she’s supposed to be the CSO on this ship, and she’s being bossed around by some baby lieutenant fresh from an Earth lab—

She taps into one of the replicators in the gym for more water, and a notice pops up, instructing her to go to sickbay immediately. Landry nearly starts kicking the unit, but then she reminds herself that she’s part of the chain of command now.

The medical officer—Connor? Culber?—is waiting for her at the door of sickbay. “Commander Landry. Nice of you to show up.”

“You stalking me, Doc?”

“The life support systems closely monitor all individuals on the ship, Commander, and it sends alerts whenever it thinks that personnel are misusing the gym equipment for extended amounts of time. The ship is stalking you, not me.”

Landry crosses her arms. She doesn’t try to hide the cracked, bruised skin on her knuckles. “Seems like a waste of energy to me.”

“It sometimes proves useful.” Culber hands her a condensed medkit, with two thin hypos and a portable regen unit inside. “I’ll tell Paul to lay off and actually listen to your orders. Remind him that you outrank him whenever you have to—it takes a few tries for it to sink it in. I know that from personal experience.” Culber looks at her, and she doesn’t like how gentle his eyes are. “Commander—be kind to yourself.”

Fucking hell, he’s one of those. “It’s not that simple, Doctor,” Landry snaps.

“I know,” he says, and he doesn’t add on anything else.

She takes the medkit with her as she leaves.

\-----

_[Computer, start recording transmission for Dhyan and Camille Landry, location: Solkar IV settlement, Ser'hld XI._

_Today, there was a party onboard the ship. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever been to. Do you remember how you used to worry that I had no friends back on the colony? And I said that I didn’t like other people? I think about that sometimes, you know, because I still don’t have a lot of friends now. I don’t need other people. I think it’s better that way—_

_—gods, doesn’t that make me sound like a sad fuck. Fuck. I really don’t have any friends, do I?_

_Computer, terminate and erase recording.]_

\-----

The day Burnham goes on the hairbrained mission to rescue her father, she comes back to their quarters, sits down at the table, and starts typing away at her PADD with an energy usually reserved for officers on duty during red alerts. Landry lets her at it for a few hours, but after a while, the silence becomes too obvious.

“How’s your dad doing?” Landry asks.

“He is recovering satisfactorily.”

 _Satisfactorily_. Burnham’s really laying the Vulcan impression on thick. Damn, shit must have really gone down. “Did something happen?” Landry asks.

“Nothing of importance.”

“Burnham.”

Burnham says nothing. The silence is like a _bat’leth_ to the face.

“Burnham, please.”

Landry’s just about to think that she should give up when Burnham starts talking. “How much do you know about my past, before I came to Starfleet?”

When the admiralty had allowed Burnham to stay onboard the Discovery, Landry read Burnham’s file until she could recite it backwards and forwards. “In 2235, your parents were killed by a Klingon raid on a science outpost on Alpha Doctari. Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan adopted you, and you lived on Vulcan for the entirety of your teenage years. In 2245, you started attending the Vulcan Science Academy. In 2249, you left the Academy in favor of a career in Starfleet.”

“I didn’t leave. I was rejected from the Vulcan Expeditionary Group.”

Landry freezes. “You were—what? Why?”

“At least—” Burnham swallows loudly, “—I was told I was rejected. By Sarek. He then advised me that it would be better for me to spend more time. With _my own people_.”

“You were raised on Vulcan for more than half of your life, Burnham; Vulcans are no less your people than humans—”

“It turns out that I was never rejected. Sarek lied to me. He was told by the administration that there could only be one—human-Vulcan experiment—in the Group, either me or my brother. He chose in favor of my brother.”

“What the fuck?” Landry bursts out, blinking rapidly. “Burnham, why would he—”

“My brother rejected the VSA entirely,” Burnham says with a rueful little twist of her lips. “I thought about it for years. Why was I not good enough? It hunted me in my own head. For years, I would stare at the mirror and wonder what was wrong was me. I would think about it as I went through my duties. I would fall asleep wondering that. Why would I—why would I never be good enough, _why would I never be enough_ —” Burnham breaks off, striding over to the window and turning her face away from Landry. “I blamed myself. For years. And it turns out—my father decided that for me, all for his own son.”

She spits out the word _own_ , like it’s a bitter taste in her mouth. Landry watches the warp lights wash over Burnham’s features, gilding her in silver-blue. She cannot for the life of her understand why anyone would look at the woman, in all her sharpness and fullness, and think that she was not enough. 

“He’s a dick,” Landry says out loud. “That’s a dick move if there ever was one.”

Burnham swivels around to look at Landry. She looks utterly confused. “Did you—did you just—”

“Call Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan a dick? I absolutely did.” Landry joins Burnham by the window, propping her hip up on the sill and staring out at the bright nothingness of warp. “I can punch him for you,” she offers.

“You cannot punch my father. He is a highly ranked ambassador and my _father_ , besides—”

“He’s your father, Burnham. And from what I know, he hasn’t been great at it.”

“He saved my life. He raised me, Landry, he loves me—”

“Yeah. Yeah, he does. And that doesn’t change the fact that he made shit choices that hurt you, Burnham.” Landry pauses, looking away from the trails and back to Burnham. “That doesn’t mean that you should be any less angry with him.”

Burnham looks at Landry for a long moment, her jaw clenched, and then she crumples, leaning into Landry’s shoulder. Her words are muffled as she whispers, “I—damn it all, Landry, I’ll never be _enough_ —”

“Bullshit,” Landry snaps. She wraps her arms around Burnham as tightly as she can. “You’re enough. You’re a genius. You’re the best woman I know, and ‘enough’ is a useless word when it comes to you. If your dad makes you feel anything otherwise, I am _absolutely_ going to call him a dick and a rat bastard, and I am absolutely going to sock him in his perfectly logical nose, and—”

“No assault on Federation citizens,” Burnham says. Her voice is still thick, but she sounds a little less like she’s about to cry.

Landry sighs. “I’ll try.” 

They head to the sofa and work together in silence as the ship whirls through space. Burnham slowly migrates closer and closer to her, until she’s lying down with her head nestled on Landry’s leg. Landry finds her fingers combing through Burnham’s curls as the tension fades from the specialist’s shoulders. The PADD with her security reports, long forgotten, topples off of the armrest and clatters on the floor, and Landry can’t be assed to pick it back up 

"Ellen—" Burnham starts, and then she breaks off, grimacing.

"What is it, Burnham?"

"I was just trying—your name," Burnham says. "Your given name."

"No one but my grandmother calls me that. Or my uncle, when he's pissier than normal."

Her parents had called her Ellen, when she was too young to know of preferences; now, she’s Len to them when they’re worried, or their little Lennie when they feel nostalgic. Her first girlfriend had called her Ellen, back when she was sixteen and still trying to hide her anger. They swore that they would leave Ser'hld XI together, and find new life together somewhere the stars were bright. Three months later, when she turned seventeen, Landry left for Starfleet without her and never looked back. 

“Does it mean something to you?” Landry asks.

“Not if it doesn’t mean anything to you,” Burnham says.

So Burnham thinks that they should be on a first name basis by now. It’s skirting dangerously close to sentimental, for the specialist. "If you want to, you can call me Michael," Burnham says.

It’s dangerously close to sentimental for Landry, too. 

Landry's fingers still where they're carding through her tight curls. "Sure, Burnh—Michael," she corrects herself hastily.

Burnham bursts out laughing, and Landry rolls her eyes.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Burnham murmurs.

“Shut up, Burnham.”

Burnham’s grin is small but bright as the memory of the first time Landry ever saw warp trails. Landry's not panicking. Landry doesn’t ever panic.

\-----

“A party, Burnham. A leisure gathering to socialize with your peers. Surely you've heard of this phenomenon before.”

“It’s been mentioned to me once or twice,” Burnham says in her flattest voice.

“Excellent. I'm so glad you're familiar with the concept.” Landry glares at Burnham. 

Burnham glares back with her most mullish expression. Landry caves so fast she's half-ashamed with herself for it, leaning over and kissing the other woman briefly. “Look, I'd be there if I could, but I’m on rounds for tonight. Just go for a little bit,” she cajoles, smoothing out the little creases below Burnham’s collar. “Mingle with the plebs for an hour or two.”

“Out of everyone on this ship, I'm the lowest in rank because I've been stripped of it.”

Oh shit, that was nearly a joke. Burnham's eyes were still shuttered as she said it, and she still flinched when talking about her trial, but that was almost a joke, told almost nonchalantly, and if Landry had a heart it'd be torn between melting and thundering out of her heart to fight Starfleet for the sheer fuckery they’d inflicted on the commander.

“You can't be a plebian, Burnham,” Landry says lightly. “You're the granddaughter of the most powerful woman on Vulcan, and you scare the living shit out of every ensign on this ship. It'd do them some good, to see you letting loose a bit.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me at a party before.”

“So you’ve been to a party, then?”

Burnham rolls her eyes, gently elbowing Landry in the ribs. “I’ve been serving in the ‘Fleet for nearly eight years, Landry; I’ve been to many a party. I’ve just never been good at them. Back on the Shenzhou—” there’s a pause here, a tightening of Burnham’s jaw, “—Captain Georgiou convinced me to go to the ones we threw for the crew. At first, if I wasn’t on duty, I’d have one glass, stick around for one hour, and then retire for the night. After a while, I hung around more, but—” Burnham laughs, tucking her hands against her elbows. “People would have to explain drinking games to me, and then after a few rounds, Philippa said that it was unfair how well I was playing. I could sweep a dabo table almost every time; I’m pretty sure I won a full set of Andorian name-day glassware from my ops officer during the last spring party—”

She breaks off. Landry jumps in before Burnham could apologize for anything else, for her past life or past lovers or past happiness or any of those other things she thinks she doesn’t deserve.

“Sounds like you were the life of the party,” Landry says. She mentally scrabbles for something to talk about. “Do you like karaoke?”

Burnham is looking down at the floor. “I’m awful at karaoke,” she says in a voice that’s more than a little choked, and then she folds, leaning into Landry’s shoulder and hiding her face from view.

Landry slowly, carefully brings her hand up to stroke Burnham’s shoulder. “I doubt that.”

“Horrendous.”

“Nope.”

“Absolutely awful.”

“I don’t believe you, Specialist.”

“Philippa said I sounded like a cat high on Trill hallucinogens.”

Landry snorts. “I sincerely doubt that human vocal cords are capable of making a noise like that.”

Burnham lifts her head from Landry’s shoulder, rubbing at her eyes a little. Her smile is shaky but there. “My brother’s the one in the family who got all the musical talent.”

“Well, fuck ‘im.” Landry kisses Burnham’s shaky smile, brings Burnham’s hands to her lips and presses kisses to her knuckles. “Go to the party, Burnham,” she says softly. “Go dance with Tilly and Tyler and terrorize the ensigns with your shitty singing—” _go talk to others, go and be happy for a few hours, stop punishing yourself for something that was never your fault_ — “—and drink some chocolatinis for me.”

Burnham looks uncertain.

“Please? For me?” Landry repeats.

“Fine,” Burnham finally relents. She wraps her arms around Landry’s shoulders and hugs her close. “I’ll go to the party, you sap,” she whispers, laughing a little.

“Thank you, Specialist,” Landry says, and she hugs her back.


	5. I'm Okay. We're Okay.

“How did Stamets convince you about the time loop?”

“He asked me for a secret.” Burnham pauses and cleared her throat. “I told him that I have never been in love.”

Landry stares. “Bullshit.”

“It is what I told him.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“People died because I loved them. I grew up thinking that I was supposed to be distant. Removed. And when I last loved—” Burnham’s hands clench into fists. “Love is not an emotion; it is a display. It takes a little part of you, from here—” she gestures to her heart “—and gives it to someone else to see.”

“So you think it’s what, an obscenity? Spare me the Vulcan act, Burnham—”

“No,” Burnham says sharply. She takes a short breath and says stiffly, “It is a display. A promise. One I—”

“One you don't deserve,” Landry finishes. Gods in warpspace, give her strength. “Burnham, your complex over what you did—”

“I have never been in love,” Burnham says, and her voice is a distant whisper. She sounds like she’s quoting something. It’s not a lie if it’s someone else’s words. “It's what I want,” she continues, and Landry's stomach twists at the emotion in her voice, the sheer broken longing of it. 

“It’s what you want because you don’t think you deserve anything else, and that’s complete shit.” Landry leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You know what? The people on the Shenzhou, and all the other people you’ve loved? And all the other people who care about you? They’d say that that's bullshit.”

They sit in silence for a long time.

“I get it though,” Landry says.

“You get what?”

“It's easier to go without something than to have it and then lose it. You can't miss what you never knew.”

Burnham rolls her eyes without any heat. “Never took you for a philosopher, Landry.”

“Don't insult me.” Landry leans back in her chair. “I was nearly kicked out from the Academy my first year. I picked fights constantly. I was angry all the time because I didn't want to know what I would be without it.” Her smile is rueful as she carefully, slowly offers her hand to Burnham, palm up, fingers curved. “When I was younger—I thought that it would eat me whole. I sometimes thought that if I became a better person, it would leave. But most of the time, I liked it. I still like it.”

Anger. Guilt. When they're out in the open, they're dirty words for women like them.

“What should I do, Landry?” Burnham asks at last. Her eyes are distant, and her voice is thin and tired. “How do you do it?”

She takes Landry's hand. Landry holds it tight. “I learn to make use of my anger. To work with it. That thing inside us—” she pauses, weighing out her words. “It changes. We change. The ocean will always be there, and we just—little by little, I guess we’ll make for shore.”

\-----

_[Computer, start recording transmission for Dhyan and Camille Landry, location: Solkar IV settlement, Ser'hld XI._

_Can I just say, Starfleet engineers are sometimes useful? I never thought I’d say this, but Meaney just figured out how to make synth ethanol that doesn’t taste like shit. I haven’t tasted arrack this good since that time Uncle Rohan gave us that bottle from Earth. Maybe you can try some when you visit me on the ship—_

_—I mean. It’s good. It’s really good._

_Fuck, Landry, it’s only good to you because replicators in the mines are thirty years out of date and run like absolute shit and they’re never gonna come out here because they could work for the rest of their lives and never afford a ticket out here. Fuck. Think about what you’re saying._

_Fucking idiot._

_Computer, terminate and erase recording.]_

\-----

“Specialist. Lieutenant. Cadet.” Landry sets down her lunch tray with clatter and pulls out the empty chair between Burnham and Tyler, sliding in across from Tilly.

“Commander!” Tilly says loudly after a long silence. “Are you—eating lunch? With us?”

Landry looks down at her lunch tray, and then back up at Tilly. Tyler coughs into his drink.

Someone kicks pointedly at her ankle under the table. Landry turns to look at Burnham, who’s staring at her, eyebrows raised. Landry stares back, smirking, until Burnham turns back to her food.

“Nice of you to join us, Commander,” Burnham says without looking up from her poached eggs, but Landry sees the corners of her eyes crinkle and the corners of her lips twitch.

“You were the one who invited me.” Landry cuts into her chicken and sticks a bite into her mouth with a little flourish of her fork. They’re all silent as she chews and swallows. “What? I eat. Did you think I drink the blood of my enemies or something?”

“Tears of the security teams, actually,” Tyler says.

Tilly’s eyes go wide. Burnham raises an eyebrow in Tyler’s direction. Landry pauses in demolishing the chicken breast. Unless she’s mistaken, that was a joke. A bad one. Four out of ten for concept, three for execution. But it was a joke nonetheless, and Landry—a little against her will—has to give him props for effort.

“I see a guard’s been snitching to the ops teams,” Landry drawls, taking a sip from her protein shake. “Clearly, I haven’t been doing my job.”

Tyler hastily shakes his head. “I meant—I meant no offense, Commander, you run a tight ship—”

“Lieutenant, it’s fine,” Landry cuts off his reassurances. 

Beneath the table, Burnham gently presses her knee against Landry's. Landry smiles and continues to eat her chicken.

\-----

“Another one! Take another one!”

Landry rolls her eyes, but she takes a few steps back and crouches down so the camera on the PADD can pick up the whole of the panorama of stars outside the Discovery’s starboard window. “One—two—three—!” she calls, snapping off a few holos. “And one—two—three—! Okay, Mum, Dad, that’s enough, that’s enough, I probably took a hundred holos of the two of you in the last five minutes—”

“Do another one, Lennie!” her father says, switching positions with her mother.

“Your auntie and uncles and Nana are going to see all these, love!” her mother says, adjusting the band in her hair. “Take a few more. My sister isn’t going to believe it, Dhyan—good gods, we’re in _space_ —”

Landry stabs the shutter button a few more times as her mother laughs and brushes her father’s bangs out of his face. 

The Discovery’s in orbit around Ser'hld XI, stocking up on the dilithium chambers the ship needed for normal warp travel. Lorca had given the crew a day of rest, so most of them beamed down to the main city planetside the moment the injunction was given, eager to enjoy some quality time on solid ground. There’s only a skeleton crew on the ship, and the whole starboard lounge is as empty as a ghost town.

The Discovery is a Crossfield-class starship, running some of the Federation’s most classified experiments. Unauthorized personnel aren’t allowed within 50 meters of its doors. Any crewmember who violates this rule can be investigated by Landry herself, potentially in preparation for a trial by the admiralty. It’s some hefty shit.

A security ensign saw Landry leading her parents onboard, and Landry had snapped, _Consultants for the core alarming system, mind your own business_ at him without hesitation.

 _You were so mean to that poor boy,_ her mother chided her, and Landry considers it a sign that she is a fully mature 34-year-old woman that she did not tell her mother that the pasty-faced fuck could suck it. 

They’re looking out the window now, _ooh_ -ing and cooing at the stars and the view of the planet below. The methane-heavy clouds look golden from space. The stars look like salt scattered on a black table sheet, and the sun is as bright as a flare in the darkness. Her parents are limned in the blueish space-light, which catches in the gray in their hair.

“You are so brave, Lennie,” her mother says in a hush, and she turns around to face Landry, and there is a smile on her face and a too-wet shine in her eyes. “Going all the way up here, fighting for the Federation—”

Landry hugs them, as tightly as she can hold them. Her mother’s breaths rattle beneath her hands—it’s the smog from the dilithium refineries, which no filtration system can completely eradicate. A few months, maybe even a few years in the factories will be fine. Four decades inspecting the distillation chambers will corrode your lungs to nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see her father reverently lay his hand on the glass in front of him. His hands shake all the time now. He supervises the deliveries to the ships, and his atoms have been rearranged in the surface-to-ship transporters so many times that his atoms are starting to forget what to do with themselves.

This is the first time they’ve ever seen space. They’ve never left the planet, and the clouds are so thick on Ser'hld XI that when you’re dirtside, you can’t even see the stars.

Her dad kisses her on the temple. “Our brave little Lennie,” he says.

Landry closes her eyes helplessly. “Mum, Dad—”

“You didn’t tell me you were having visitors, Commander.”

Landry whirls around. Lorca’s standing in the doorway, an eyebrow raised, and there’s a funny lurching sensation in Landry’s chest. Connelly, that nosy weasel-faced snitching little bastard fuck—

“Didn’t think I had to tell you.”

The room is silent. 

Lorca stares at her before turning to her parents with a smile he must think is charming. “Mr. and Mrs. Landry, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Gabriel Lorca, and I have the joy of being the captain of this fine vessel.”

“Lennie, this is your captain?” her mother asks. She’s grinning widely as she reaches out to shake Lorca’s hand. “Captain Lorca, you said? It is an honor, Captain Lorca.”

“The honor is all mine, ma’am. Though I’m afraid that I have to tell you that you can’t be on this ship. I’m sorry ‘bout that, but we’re a research vessel, and only authorized personnel can come aboard—”

“Lennie!” her dad chides. “You told us it would be no problem if we came aboard—”

“Captain, a word?” Landry says quietly.

“After this, Commander; we can chat then.”

 _We can chat then._ Chat. The fucking bastard.

“Now then, Mr. and Mrs. Landry, if you’ll allow me to give you a short tour of the ship and then escort you to the transporter room? What’s your beam-down point?” Lorca opens the lounge doorway with a flourish, and Landry’s parents follow him out. She trails behind, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. She digs her nails into her palms as they go through the halls.

“The Solkar IV mining settlement,” her mother says. “There’s only one transporter in the whole settlement, so I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding it.”

“The mining settlement?” Lorca echoes. “Forgive me for saying this, ma’am, but—”

“It’s a rough part of the planet,” her mother finishes. “We know. That’s why we’re so proud of our little Lennie for getting into Starfleet. She was always the hardest working little girl, and we always knew that she would be the one to make us proud—”

Landry is reasonably sure that any sentient being in the prime of their maturity would be drowning in humiliation upon hearing their mother say that to their commanding officer. She’s not quite so sure if the welling, choking helplessness clogging her throat is also normal. 

Her parents turn to gold in the transporter beams before her eyes. Lorca turns to her. “What did you want to discuss, Commander?”

Landry doesn’t look at him. “Nothing, sir.”

“Are you going to try to defend your actions?”

“No.”

“Are you going to ask forgiveness?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Pull a stunt like that again, and you’re off the ship.”

Landry punches in the protocol code for her own transport planetside. “Understood.” She gets on the transporter pad and waits for the timed beam-down.

“One last thing, Commander.”

“Sir?”

“You’re a mining kid, Landry?” The corners of his lips twitch up. “I thought so.”

Mining kid. Troublemaker. Gunk scum. Everyone told her that she’d never be anything else. Everyone told her that methane gunk doesn’t ever wash off. Everyone told her that she’d always come back to the dirt where she was born.

Guess they were all right.

She bares her teeth in a grin. “Mining brat ‘til I die. _Sir_.”

Before Lorca can say anything else, the ship dissolves into light.

\-----

_[Computer, start recording transmission for Dhyan and Camille Landry, location: Solkar IV settlement, Ser'hld XI._

_Mom, Dad, do you ever hate me? I think you hate me. You have to hate me. I left you there and I don’t regret a fucking thing, you should hate me, I fucking hate myself—_

_—shit. Shit. Fuck. Why am I so drunk? Why am I so fucking drunk?_

_Fuck. Computer, terminate and erase recording.]_

\-----

“Landry—” Burnham starts. She’s standing in the dust clouds which surround the quarry entrance like an apparition, looking at Landry with something warm and reaching and soft in her eyes. Landry sneers and turns away.

“How did you find me?”

“Transporter log. I met your parents, too. They told me to look for you here. I don’t think they get too many people in ‘Fleet uniforms in the settlement—so they assumed some things.”

She knows what Burnham is thinking, in that big, busy brain of hers. She’s collating all of Landry’s stories, of being a difficult child, of having a troubled childhood, of wanting to get the hell out of dodge, and realizing that Landry’s nothing more than the mining dust in her lungs. Any moment now, she’ll be deciding to _pity_ Landry, fucking pity the poor mining brat who followed her dreams all the way into space—

“Landry,” Burnham repeats, setting a careful hand on Landry’s shoulder, and Landry deflates like a popped balloon, sagging against Burnham’s touch. 

“I was supposed to feel like I’d conquered something,” Landry says, picking up a rock from the huge pile of mining refuse next to them and crumbling it beneath her fingertips. It leaves a slick, gritty gray residue on her hand. “I was supposed to come back here and realize that I’m bigger than all this. That I’m better than all this now.”

 _Mining brat ‘til she dies_. Landry clears her throat of grime and spits into a pile of rubble. The motion comes back easier than breathing. Burnham cringes at the action, and Landry half-heartedly smirks at her.

Something skitters across their feet, and Burnham glances down at the neon-colored lizard now chewing on her bootstrap. She gently shakes her foot, and it hangs on with its front feet. Tenacious little bastard. “What are those? I’ve seen them everywhere.”

“ _Ptlak_ lizards. They feed on the weird gunk that grows around methane deposits,” Landry tells Burnham, nudging at the animal with the toe of her boot. It opens its mouth and hisses at her with its luminescent green tongue. “We used to play with them.”

“What did you do?” Burnham asks, peering at one curiously. 

“You throw them,” Landry says.

“You what?”

Landry guffaws. “You throw them,” she repeats. “You just. Chuck ‘em.”

“ _Why_?”

“There wasn’t anything else to do.”

“So you …threw the lizards?”

“They like it. It's part of their mating rituals now.”

Burnham is silent. 

Landry tiredly rubs at her suddenly too-tight eyes. She doesn't have the energy to give a damn about the dirt on her fingers. “Don't you dare tell me that it's beautiful here, Burnham,” she says hoarsely. “Don't give me that shit.”

She hears Burnham take a deep breath. “I'm glad they’re here for you,” Burnham murmurs. “Your father and your mother. They're wonderful. And I'm glad they got to see the ship and the stars.” She pauses. “They showed me the holos you took.”

“Were they any good?”

“Most of them were blurry. And I could see your fingers in them.”

Landry kicks at one of the rocks. She's bad at conversations like this, doesn't know how to take the gentleness in Burnham's voice. “They probably like you,” she mutters. “Gods know why, they usually don't trust rich people, and you're the fucking poshest girl I've ever brought back.”

Burnham laughs. “Your mother told me that I'm the only girl you've ever brought back.”

Her arms come to wrap around Landry's shoulders, holding her close. Landry closes her eyes and breathes, letting the smell of 'Fleet issue lemon detergent and Burnham's deodorant drown out the metallic bite of dirt in her nostrils. “You think transports here are cheap or something, Burnham?” Landry says wetly.

“I wouldn't know,” Burnham murmurs, stroking her hair. “I'm posh, remember?”

Landry snorts. It's an ugly sound. 

“My mother thinks I’m brave for going into space. Isn’t that bullshit, Burnham?” Landry mutters into Burnham’s neck. “Isn’t that the shittiest bullshit you’ve ever heard?”

“You’re not a coward,” Burnham says softly.

“But I’m not brave.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re a coward.”

Landry doesn’t respond. She holds onto Burnham a little tighter. They stand and sway in the dust for a long moment.

“Ready to go back to the ship?” Burnham asks at last.

Landry turns to Burnham and kisses her. “Let's go,” she says, and she presses her hand to Burnham's cheek. Burnham crowds in close. She seems unmindful of the dust on Landry’s fingers.

They make their way back to their ship hand-in-hand, and the _ptlak_ lizards chirp at them as they go by.

\-----

“Hey, Burnham, are you okay with me sending someone this picture of us?” Landry asks, waving her PADD in front of Burnham’s face. It’s one of the few holos of herself Landry tolerates.

“Who are you sending it to?”

“A friend.” Landry attaches it to her message. “Ronnie. Veronica Lam. She’s been my counsellor since I was a very small and very angry teenager.”

Burnham nods, smiling briefly before returning to her reports. No, not her reports. She’s not even reading on a PADD; she’s tenderly turning through a stack of actual physical paper, each sheet worn along the creases where it’s been unfolded and folded back time and time again.

“You didn’t burn them,” Landry says.

“I wanted to, back then,” Burnham says softly. “But I couldn’t.”

“Will you write back to any of them?” 

“I already did. Several times. Electronically, though—I have no wish to continue to destroy forest ecosystems.”

Landry laughs. “I think they synthetically replicate all that shit now, anyways.” She hesitates for a moment. “I’m glad you didn’t just toss them out, Burnham,” she says.

“I am, too.” Burnham sets the stack of letters aside. “I am sorry that you had to read all of them. My brother’s prose—leaves something to be desired. Especially when he’s talking about study methodology.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I read them when you didn’t want me to.”

Burnham looks up at Landry and takes a deep breath. “Did I ever tell you about him? My brother?”

Landry ran a background check on Burnham’s brother. She knows everything there is to know about him, from his carefully documented conception to his checkered school history to his publications in various physics journals. And yet—

“I know jack shit about your brother, Burnham. But I’d love to learn more.”

\-----

_[Computer, start recording transmission for Dhyan and Camille Landry, location: Solkar IV settlement, Ser'hld XI._

_Mom, Dad, we were on a mission to Lyra Gamma IV today. The mountains there are green crystal, and the sky is every shade of blue and purple you can imagine._

_Michael took some pictures for you._

_Hope everything is going well at home. Your garden’s in season now, isn’t it? Botany has these seeds for these weird orange things from the Eridanus system, and I was thinking you’d like them. They taste a little like tamarind, like the paste Nana gave us. I’ll send some back. Maybe—maybe they’d grow there._

_I—uh, I love you. Talk to you soon, I guess._

_Computer, send transmission.]_

\-----

They’re Starfleet. It doesn’t take long for things to go to shit.

The Discovery is in orbit around an unpopulated M-class to investigate geomagnetic instabilities or something. Landry has no business being on-planet—it’s a science mission, she knows nothing about science—but cabin fever strikes even the best of them, so she pulled rank as CSO and got herself on the landing party.

She should have known things would go to shit. Anything involving the word _instability_ is bound to be a clusterfuck.

Three minutes after they beam down, the ground is splitting beneath their feet, the rock formations are crumbling, and Burnham—

—Burnham is out cold, struck down by the falling debris. She has shrapnel embedded in her head, her ribs are probably broken, and her breathing is wet and shallow and rattling—

“I’ve got you,” Landry says, picking Burnham up and cradling her to her chest. She starts running. “I’ve got you,” she repeats. She thinks she’s talking out loud, but she doesn’t know for sure. She can’t hear through the frantic beat of her pulse. “We’re going to get back to the ship, and you’re going to be okay, Burnham, you’re going to be okay, you’re—you—Landry to Discovery, do you hear me? Do you hear me? Discovery, copy right now, do you fucking hear me? Landry to—”

“ _Commander Landry, this is the Discovery. We’ve got a lock on your—_ ”

“—two to beam out, now, straight to medbay. Now, fucking—now, _now_ —”

The world melts into gold. Landry is shaking when she materializes, and she sets Burnham down on the gurney waiting for them and then sinks into a chair, burying her face in her hands.

Culber comes out of the operating suite two hours later and tells her that Burnham’ll live. She starts breathing again. Burnham is unconscious for six hours after her surgery, and Landry stays at her bedside for all six of them. Vistor brings her lunch and tells her that she had her shifts covered. Landry tells herself it’s all in the name of ship security. Because—because it’s the mutineer. Because Burnham’s security is paramount to the ship’s security. Because—something.

Landry’s out from her chair the moment Burnham’s eyes start fluttering. She calls Culber over, who checks Burnham’s vitals and then leaves, activating the privacy screen around the two of them. Landry gently squeezes her hands, and Burnham’s lips twitch into a grin, pulling at the half-healed skin of her cheeks. 

“Landry,” she says, “the hell you doing here?”

They stare at each other, and then Landry bursts out laughing, bringing Burnham's hands up and pressing them to her face so she could feel their warmth against her skin.

“Hey,” Burnham says softly, cupping her face in her hands. “I'm okay. We're okay.”

“We're okay,” Landry repeats. She’s smiling, and she couldn’t have stopped if she tried. “Yeah. _Yeah_.”

They’re okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, it's been over a year since this fic was started at the end of 2017, and it's fought against me every step of the way. Thank you so, so, so much to tincanspaceship for beta-ing this recalcitrant child of a fic for me.
> 
> The show's timeline and actual plot has been more or less thrown to the wind for this one. I am just incredible bitter about Landry's death, and I will never let it go.


End file.
